


it's all about the touch (and the fire in your eyes)

by Mizzy



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bucket List, Confusion, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Miscommunication, Oblivious, Public Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: Kris Bryant is possibly ninja-dating Rizzo, if that's an actual thing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to M for the beta. <3 Tiny bit blink-and-you-miss-it hockey RPF.

 

 

The first thing Bryant says to Rizzo on entering his apartment: "Dude, is that your Spotify playlist?"

Rizzo tilts his chin stubbornly. Any resemblance of the music playing softly in the background of his apartment to his playlist is _absolutely_ accidental. It's not like he agonized over what to play for the team get-together for hours and ended up loading up his playlist shortlist three minutes before Rossy got to his front door, as agonizingly early to social things as he always is, in sharp annoying counterpoint to his on-time professional schedule. Rossy lives to makes his life a misery and it's still _delightful._

Bryant's staring at him patiently. Right. Yes. There was a question.

"No," Rizzo says, after the too-long pause.

Bryant just beams at him and reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. "Sure," he says, easily.

Rizzo tries to muster some small talk. "Did you find somewhere to park okay?"

Bryant shakes his head. "Took the L."

Rizzo stares. Bryant shrugs out of his jacket and hands over something large and heavy in a Cubs-blue colored bag; Rizzo takes both the bag and jacket and narrows his stare to a squint.

"It's cheaper," Bryant says, as Rizzo hangs Bryant's jacket up on the coat rack.

Rizzo jerks his head and just expects Bryant to follow as he turns towards the sitting room. Bryant does follow, a shadow at Rizzo's back. "And you weren't mobbed by autograph hunters?"

The team members who are there already are gathered around Ross, the team's honorary grandpa waving his arms around as he energetically tells a story. All eyes are on him, although Szczur spots Bryant shambling into the room behind Rizzo and waves a friendly hand.

"Nah," Bryant says, as Rizzo opens Bryant's gift - it's two large bottles of milk and a stack of bright colored plastic bowls and plastic spoons. Rizzo rolls his eyes — clearly the guys have been co-ordinating their snacks tonight.

"The food is here, help yourself," Rizzo says, gesturing at the spread of snacks -- his bite-sized offerings are on plates, but the contents of the table changed dramatically when Arrieta, Szczur, Soler and Heyward all turned up at once clutching matching boxes of RizzOs. Bryant smiles indulgently as he pokes at one of the boxes, and reaches for a bottle of water.

"Thanks," Bryant says.

"I would have gotten _mobbed_ on the L," Rizzo sighs.

Bryant shoots him an amused look. "Are you bragging or complaining?"

Rizzo laughs and throws an arm around Bryant's shoulders, leading him over to the group where Ross is either crying into his elbow or trying to dab; Rizzo wishes he'd charged his phone up earlier so he could get some video of that for their Instagram project. It probably doesn't bode too well that they're three weeks into the season and Rizzo's not entirely sure whether he's coming or going.

"People just don't click here yet I'm not someone who just looks a lot _like_ Kris Bryant. Even with my face painted sixty foot high on the HVAC." Bryant shrugs. "Don't know how long that will last for, so… might as well while I still can, you know?"

"Yeah, I get that," Rizzo says, resentful because he can't ride the L any more without getting swarmed for autographs. The kids are okay, it's just the adults he side-eyes, wondering whether they're fans or whether the sweaty napkin he's signing is going to end up on eBay.

The night proceeds pretty well, Rizzo thinks, and it's nice to do a little team bonding on one of their rare days off. He thinks about other teams and how the players are desperate to get space from each other on their free days, and Rizzo can't imagine wanting that. He supposes that's a part of the Cubs' particular brand of magic -- they should probably annoy each other, but here they are crammed into Rizzo's Lincoln Park apartment as the night blurs pleasantly by.

He feels a little bit of that potential annoyance when he's coaxed to his piano partway through the night, but even that subsides when he has to admit it doesn't take all that much coaxing. He's not showing off when he plays. Okay, he's showing off a little, but he likes the buzz he gets when playing piano for an audience, the potential of mistakes brimming under his fingers, audible in a different way to his mistakes on the field. Zo shoves him over on the bench and sings a little too loud, too close to his ear, making him laugh until he completely loses track of his fingers on the keys. 

From the corner of his eye, he watches Kris fold himself into the picture window next to Addi, handing him one of two bowls of cereal, framed against the flare of light from the streetlamp outside.

The night continues to blur, someone ordering pizza partway through — "Because Man," Rossy declares, waving a spoon like it's a trophy, "cannot live on RizzOs alone!" — and then excuses start being made, and it's early in the morning and somehow Rizzo and Bryant are still sat in the corner, chatting about nothing.

"I should go," even Bryant says eventually.

"You could stay," Rizzo says, following him over to the front door, and he realizes how that sounds, which is ridiculous because he's not— Well, _Bryant_ 's totally not, anyway. Rizzo shakes his head, a little stupefied by how tired he is. "I have plenty of guest rooms," he adds.

"I should get back," Bryant says. "I'll see you tomorrow." He glances at one of Rizzo's clocks. "Later today," he amends.

"At least let me call you a taxi. Or order an Uber. Get an Uber over?" Rizzo tilts his head a little, because he's pretty sure he used to be down with the kids, he can handle dubsmash like a pro, so the idea of something like Uber defeating him? _Heartbreaking._

"I'll just take the brown line, it's fine," Bryant says, not quite meeting Rizzo's eyes.

Rizzo nods and heads to retrieve Bryant's jacket from his coat hooks.

"You're really getting on with that," Bryant says conversationally, and Rizzo is confused until Bryant nods in the direction of the piano.

"Yeah, I guess," Rizzo says, because praise is always something he's going to soften; unlike baseball, he can't share the praise among his teammates. "It's just something I always wanted to do, y'know? And after coming so close to—" He pauses, because there's never a socially acceptable way to say _nearly dying_ without bringing the whole mood down. "—I mean, you can die at any time, y'know? Cancer, plane crash—" Oh yeah, Rizzo missed that strike zone for sure.

"Yeah, thanks buddy," Bryant says, rolling his eyes and reaching over to slap Rizzo companionably on the upper arm. "You always know how to keep my thoughts upbeat and positive."

"No problem," Rizzo says, beaming until Bryant rolls his eyes. "Anyway, I realized if there's something you wanna do, do it. Life's too short for what ifs and regrets, yeah?"

He turns at the end, meaning to turn another smile in Bryant's direction, but he doesn't have time. He has a second to take in the scene — Bryant's eyes, darker than usual, an intent expression on his handsome face — and then Rizzo automatically closes his eyes. Because Bryant surges forwards, one hand sliding around his neck to tug him into a kiss.

The kiss last only a moment, only long enough for Rizzo to surrender _oh_ -so-briefly to the heat, and yeah, it's a hot kiss for sure. It's not like Rizzo's logged hours and hours thinking about how Kris Bryant would kiss, and maybe he's thought about it fleetingly — what else is a guy supposed to do in close proximity to a group of people he sees more often than anyone he's ever dated, huh? — but in his imagination, Bryant is a sweet kisser. Lips pressed to lips on the doorstep at the end of a date. A warm butterfly touch against a cheek as a thank you. This actual kiss is fire, and addiction, and if Rizzo's knees tremble slightly, he's keeping that notion to himself, because the world has apparently lost all reason without adding any more fuel.

There's a strange expression on Bryant's face when he pulls back, his fingertips lingering at the base of Rizzo's neck for a moment. Bryant's expression is a lot like when he steps up to the plate to bat, but with something of the same craziness that Rizzo's come to associate with a pitcher stepping up onto a mound on a make-it-or-break-it game after an inconsistent streak.

When words come, they are not graceful. "Whuh?" Rizzo manages, eloquently. He's staring, he knows he is, and he's kind of— Well, to be honest, he's kind of scared that Bryant's lost the plot. Rizzo's eyes track Bryant's face like he's an unfamiliar pitcher, and Rizzo has to gauge what kind of balls Bryant's gonna throw. Apparently Bryant's a breaking ball kind of guy, because that kiss was either a curveball or a screwball, Rizzo's pretty sure.

The strange expression on Bryant's face fades into a mild smile. "Just following advice," Bryant says, in a light tone like he's discussing the weather, before nodding firmly and turning on his heel, shoving his hands in his pockets and ambling out of Rizzo's apartment like nothing weird has just happened at all.

Rizzo's not-quite-his-Spotify playlist sings quietly in the background, _I_ _love the way you make me lose my mind._

Huh.

#

Rizzo's jittery when he gets to the Clubhouse the next day for the game, but it's— it's _normal._ And that kind of makes it weird, but Bryant shoots him a shy smile over the edge of his tablet, fingers jabbing at a bright-colored app that half the team are addicted to and highly competitive over, and thumps him in the shoulder before they head to do some weights, and it's all so ridiculously normal that by the time the game itself rolls around, Rizzo's come up with a theory:

Namely, that he imagined the whole thing.

It has to be normal, he thinks. Being around so many guys, so much adrenaline and testosterone, you're _bound_ to lose your mind a little bit. Fantasizing about team mates is something that's always happened, to some scale or the other, and just because for the last year most of those imaginings have involved Bryant just, well— it lends more credence to the theory.

It's completely normal behavior. For sure. So when Rizzo wakes up, embarrassingly hard after replaying that kiss in his dreams all night, he wills his boner away and reaches for his phone. He can't text any other baseball players because they gossip worse than Rizzo's family does, and Rizzo's family is _Italian_. They consume almost as much gossip as they do pasta. And he can't text his family because, well, they gossip nearly as much as baseball players do.

Rizzo texts the best confidant he can think of. _It's normal to fantasize about teammates, right??_

 _Dude_ , Jonathan Toews texts back.  _Concussions are serious business.  Get tested ASAP._

Rizzo squints at the screen and sighs. So much for solidarity among Chicago athletes.

#

"I can't believe you got out of this," Rizzo complains as soon as Bryant picks up the phone call.

He's well past the breathless worry he'd felt at watching Bryant get helped off the field during their last game, limping badly, grim faced and staring resolutely at the ground. He'd fretted through the last four innings and for hours afterwards until Bryant texted him the results of the MRI: just a mild sprain, thank goodness, but bad enough to keep him laid up for the next couple of days, the only things he'll miss being a couple of games and, of fucking course, the Bricks and Ivy Ball.

Rizzo tugs at the white lei that's been draped around his neck all night. Bad enough that he had to get trussed up in a monkey suit and wear a tie, bad enough he has _flowers_ hanging around his neck, but Bryant gets to miss it too? Rizzo hates being injured, he's the worst patient, whiny and fractious, and the whining increases tenfold when it results in _no baseball_ , but right now he's starting to see the appeal, a little. His smile feels like it might be screwed on at this point. It's for a good cause, it's all for such a _great_ cause, but Rizzo prefers other methods of giving back: visiting people, talking, meeting kids. Not dressed up in a suit while his team auctions him off like a side of beef.

At least, Rizzo thinks viciously, the item he was involved in for the auction means he won't be alone _then._

"Dude, if you think I hurt myself in order to avoid having to shmooze with people, then… No, I can't even joke about it, I miss baseball too much. I'd wear a suit every day if it meant I could play." Bryant's voice on Rizzo's tiny speaker is so earnest that Rizzo gets caught somewhere between an eyeroll and what feels like an extremely dopey smile.

"I'm like eighty-five percent sure no one thinks that,"  Rizzo says lightly, tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder to tug ineffectually at his tie.  "So, did you hear what we made?"

"Rizz, the auctions ended like three minutes ago. I've been lying in the dark and feeling sorry for myself. How would I know how well we did?"

Rizzo squints. "Telepathy?"

"Sure," Bryant says, easily. "C'mon, man. How much did we make overall?"

Rizzo beams even though Bryant can't see his expression. As much as Bryant likes taking selfies, especially of the both of them, he's pretty reluctant to FaceTime. Probably because he's like Rizzo and hangs out at home mostly just in his underwear. Ugh, and now Rizzo needs to think about roadkill and grandmothers in hole-ridden underwear and Donald Trump because he needs to go back inside and smooth-talk more of their patrons and he really can't do that if he's sporting an unwieldy and unwelcome boner.

All because he's thinking of Bryant sitting around in his underwear.

While he's talking on the phone with Bryant.

Ugh. That kiss-which-did-not-happen has really messed with his mind for sure.

"One point six five," Rizzo says, feeling like he's drawn the suspense out enough.

"One… point six five thousand dollars?" Bryant blinks. "Why didn't you just say, like, one thousand and six hundred and fifty dollars?"

"Because that's what I would have said _if_ that's how much someone had bid," Rizzo says, slowly. "But no."

"Someone… only bid one dollar sixty five cents?" Bryant sounds incredibly confused and Rizzo has to fight the urge to Snoopy dance right where he is. "I knew I should have limped along, that's actually disappointing."

"Hey," Rizzo says, offended. "We did okay without you. It's million."

" _What_?" Bryant sounds just like that really bad practice when Jake kind of sort of massively missed a 100mph pitch and hit Bryant in the stomach.

"One point six five million," Rizzo says, giddily.

"Are you _fucking kidding me,_ " Bryant says, and Rizzo lights up inside even more because Bryant really doesn't swear all that much, so when he does, it feels kind of special. Bryant's so clean cut and good and earnest that the little insights into his flaws are always extra delightful.

"Nope," Rizzo says. "Hand to God. Our night on the town item scored _tons._ "

"Wow," Bryant says. "I almost don't regret agreeing to that, now." A brief pause. "Did you see who bid on that item?"

"They put it on the silent item list," Rizzo says. "Think they were scared of the stampede otherwise." He hums. "Lot of attractive people here, though. Might even have been bid on by someone cute so I can pick up, huh?"

"Hey," Bryant says. "Maybe it's someone cute for _me,_ did you think about that?"

Rizzo squints at his phone and the grinning, innocent-looking selfie Bryant graced his contact card with. "I thought you had someone," Rizzo says. Well, he kind of mutters it. Whatever. "You know. Like, a forever someone."

"No," Bryant says, and sounding somewhat offended, almost like he's _winded,_ asks in a quiet voice, "Would I have kissed you if I did?"

Rizzo feels like all the air has been punched out of him in return. He's outside in the cold but he feels too warm. If there's oxygen in the vicinity, none of it is making its way into his lungs. He doesn't know what to say, beyond _I thought I imagined that,_ and that just makes him sound incredibly stupid. "Maybe if it was a YOLO kiss," Rizzo says, and resists the urge to facepalm, because if he was aiming for not-stupid, he missed.

"Uh," Bryant says. "What?"

"You Only Live Once," Rizzo says. At least if he's explaining something, he's not making incoherent noises into his phone. Or shameless begging, like _tell me exactly why you kissed me_ and _do you want to kiss me again_ and _please kiss me again I can't stop thinking about it._

"I know what YOLO means," Bryant says, and he sounds more like his usual self. "I'm not sure you used it right."

"FOMO?" Rizzo offers.

"That's not really—"

"G, O, A, T?" Rizzo spells out, because he's not superstitious, he's not, but _what if_ is always a powerful phrase.

"How about _STFU_ before you sound like more of a grandpa than Rossy," Bryant says. "And how about I'm hanging up now. Put you out of your misery."

Rizzo opens his mouth to protest and is met by the dial tone. _Spoil sport,_ he thinks, instead of lingering on the other thing. The kiss not being a figment of his imagination thing. Yeah, that's going to take some getting used to.

#

Rizzo's anticipation that Bryant would be better for Saturday's game is shot in the foot when the game is postponed, stupid inclement weather, but he's back on the Sunday, smiling brightly at everyone, and Rizzo's so happy about that he ends up having to leave the locker room before he does something like implode all over the place.

The new Clubhouse is amazing with a capital AMAZING, and Rizzo feels like he's barely scratched the surface of it, really. So far Rizzo has ascertained three things that he's going to pass onto the next rookie that joins the Cubs and looks at him with a starry eyed expression:

  1. Video room three is the best, and Tad, who archives the tapes, can be bribed with bear claws into finding you embarrassing footage of your teammates.
  2. If he shows up early instead of on time Laurette in the kitchen will make him any kind of omelette his heart desires, and
  3. If you loosen the seat on the fourth stationery cycle in the training room, Addi will fall off it at some point during warm-up. It is _always_ hilarious, and he never learns to test the seat before sitting on it.



There's one thing about the Clubhouse thought that bugs Rizzo. Don't get him wrong —he adores the concept of the round room and everyone being equal, and it makes him think of King Arthur and his knights. The Commissioner's Trophy is even kind of the holy grail, if you extend the metaphor. The thing that bugs him though is that the room is round, and all the rooms around it are square or rectangular, so _how does that work._

Rizzo ends up giving up wondering, and turns up earlier than usual so he can poke around. Approaching it logically, he follows the left-hand wall like he'd approach an unfamiliar maze, and he finally hits upon the answer — the storage rooms surrounding the locker room have curved inner walls! - a moment before he realizes he's not alone in his wandering. Because Bryant has followed him into the just-discovered room.

"I, uh," Rizzo says, and feels ridiculous, because he's a talker. Ask anyone. Give him a minute and he will fill it with a hundred words. Something about Bryant makes him lose words, a handful at a time.

Bryant smiles at him easily. He's wearing his game pants but a looser training t-shirt, _SPRING TRAINING_ emblazoned over his chest. "What are you doing in here?" he asks. "Urgent need for a broom, huh?"

Rizzo startles, looks at the lines of cleaning equipment on the wall, and realizes he's found a storage closet. He grins goofily. "Just testing a theory," he says. "Since I saw the round room I figured the rooms around it gotta look fucking weird - I mean, did they curve the walls or lose floor space with a straight wall. Guess they're bent, huh?"

By the time he finishes and looks back at Bryant, meaning just to shrug and make an excuse to leave, Bryant's standing a little closer, his eyes intent on Rizzo's face, and Rizzo finds it suddenly difficult to swallow. "Guess so," Bryant says. Even though he's basically whispering in the small space, it feels loud to Rizzo, Bryant's voice filling his ears.

"Before," Rizzo says.

"Mmhmm?" Bryant prompts, noncommittally, his eyes flickering to Rizzo's mouth briefly, and _oh my god,_ Rizzo has to clench his fists to avoid the reaction his body wants to make on seeing that.

"When you said you followed my advice," Rizzo continues gamely, because he's not a coward, and things between them are already weird, right? So what's adding more weirdness to the weird by actually talking about it? "Did you mean… kissing _me_ was what you wanted to do? Or was it just, y'know." He gestures in a way that he's trying to make mean _gay kissing in general_ , but apparently reads as just regular arm flailing, because Bryant looks confused. "Was it just kissing a dude that you wanted to do," Rizzo says, finally.

Bryant just looks at Rizzo in response, eyes tracking across Rizzo's face. Rizzo knows how his perfect lips feel against his. His mouth goes dry just thinking about it again. Christ, one kiss, and he's probably broken for all other kissing.

Bryant's not saying something, and Rizzo, he's just too used to filling up silences with words, because he finds himself asking without even realizing it's actually something he's wondering about, "Was kissing all you wanted?"

Apparently kissing is _not_ all that Bryant wanted, even though it's also very apparently still on the menu, because Rizzo is kissed to within an inch of his life, he's pretty sure, before Bryant then sinks to his knees and it's all Rizzo can do to stay upright, because oh my _god._ If Rizzo were to guess, this _might_ be Bryant's first time sucking someone's dick, but Rizzo would tell that guess to go shut up if it thinks it means anything, because Bryant puts an arm across Rizzo's hip to hold him in place before fucking going to town on Rizzo's dick and holy _hell,_ it's like conditioning week all over again and they're running the beep test, and Rizzo's just about holding onto consciousness at level fifteen and the whole world is white behind his eyes. Bryant's not taking him in that deep, but his mouth is warm and hot and eager, and it takes just the briefest brush of stubble against the sensitive skin of Rizzo's inner thighs to tip Rizzo over the edge and Bryant doesn't even fucking _falter,_ just swallows Rizzo down like the worst and best kind of wet dream at the same time.

Rizzo doesn't give Bryant time to freak out — he reaches down and hauls Bryant up, shoving him against the straighter wall filled with cleaning equipment, and mops and buckets clatter in a heap around them. Bryant tips his head back so Rizzo can kiss his neck and reach a hand into his pants, and Rizzo jerks Bryant off with ruthless speed and a heat that surprises both of them.

Rizzo's idly thought about sex with his team mates before but it's never been more than idle daydreaming, and never been more than thinking about _receiving,_ not giving, and Rizzo's obviously an idiot, because jerking Bryant off is doing almost as much to Rizzo as Bryant's mouth on his dick was doing to him.

The hot feel of Bryant's erection under his fingers, twitching when Rizzo twists his wrist just right, is blowing his mind as surely as Bryant blew his dick, and as Bryant trembles under his touch and lowers his head to push his mouth into Rizzo's shoulder to muffle his noises, Rizzo feels nothing but triumphant as Bryant falls to pieces when Rizzo tightens his fingers and brushes his thumb over the head of Bryant's dick.

Rizzo steps back and then slumps against the wall, breathing deeply, and Bryant smiles at him shakily before pulling his pants back on, leaving the room, and then avoiding the hell out of him for days.

#

Well, Rizzo probably should have seen that coming. Y'know. If anyone correctly ever predicts having sex with a teammate in a storage room.

Rizzo takes it in his stride as much as he takes anything else that's confusing. He focuses on the games. The Cubs are pretty much on fire at the moment and he's more than glad for the distraction. Without baseball he'd probably just be lying on the floor of his apartment making fish faces at the ceiling. It's all beyond confusing, and as such, everything seems perfectly fine when Bryant turns up on their next rare free day demanding that they go out and do something fun in a public location.

Okay, Rizzo's brain may have been sucked out of his dick _slightly,_ because museums really aren't his thing at all, so when he hears the words "The Aquarium might be cool?" come out of his own mouth, he thinks he may have lost his mind for sure.

There are lots of things to support the hypothesis. Bryant is quiet as they walk around the Aquarium, although he's a little talkative when he gets interested in the jellyfish and how they swim upside down. Bryant takes Rizzo's phone and sneaks a photo of a sea lion who kind of romantically assaults Rizzo, and when the media quiz him about the photo - various versions of it uploaded online - Rizzo jokes about the sea lion's wet kiss, and hold backs any comment that Bryant had been there with him.

Mainly because he wonders whether he can say Bryant was with him when Bryant was a ghost, all polite smiles and small talk, and only one genuine grin when joking about Maddon's plans for his day off including spooning his television. Or as their manager calls it, snuggling up with dinner to a Stephen King TV show.

Rizzo's got enough to ride high on without letting Bryant's weird behavior drag him down. Capping the Pirates in the ass _twice_ is always freaking satisfying, and his mom wins the award she was nominated for, which is pretty badass, even if he's confused because seriously, why she did not win it every year since the moment of her birth, Rizzo is not sure. He indulgently tweets his glee at her win while on the phone with her, and then almost as soon as he hangs up Bryant turns up at his front door because of fucking course he does.

"I have tickets," Bryant says brusquely. His hands are in his coat pockets and his cheeks look red.

"Hi, Kris, I only saw you an hour ago, what the fuck even," Rizzo mutters, reaching automatically for his jacket because that's just how he's wired.

"I saw you for baseball, this is for not-baseball," Bryant says, like what he's saying is obvious, and maybe Toews had a point the other day about someone being needed to be checked for a concussion - Rizzo's just not sure if it's him or Bryant, that's all.

Bryant has his car this time, the Audi he "splashed" out with as his first big paycheck purchase. Rizzo has to bend his knees more than he wants to in order to fit in the car, and he silently bemoans Bryant' s sensibilities, because anyone else would have splashed out on a fancier car with more leg space. Bryant's not exactly short either, and Rizzo glares at his profile for a moment, but apparently Rizzo's going to be given the silent treatment and he fucking has emotional whiplash, that's what's going on.

It's when they drive past the Lincoln Monument that Rizzo starts to get a bit of a clue, when combined with the time (late) and Bryant's third word on seeing him (tickets). Bryant's reserved parking on the Piper's Alley parking garage, even, and Rizzo is pretty sure by the time Bryant parks and _goes around the side of the car to let Rizzo out_ that this is a date.

Well, if this is Bryant's descent into insanity, Rizzo is kind of enjoying the trip. Maybe life's too short to ask why, anyway.

The Second City is their destination, the improv group that Rizzo okay, he kind of rambles about them sometimes and if he performs some of their skits while the rest of the Cubs are trapped in small spaces with him as his captive audience, well, he's only human. Bryant's never seen them before, and that's so obvious in the way Bryant laughs at the first joke, a rumble of a laugh that passes through his body and into Rizzo's.

The seats aren't designed for large athletes, and their legs are pressed together, and Rizzo spends the whole revue trying not to continually sneak glances at Bryant, wondering how best to recreate the skit with the policeman and the piñata, and generally otherwise trying not to laugh his inner organs out of place.

Someone on the cast or crew is a fan, though, and when Bryant tries to lead Rizzo out of the theatre, a gentlemanly hand on the small of Rizzo's back because _what even in his life any more_ , an assistant ushers them through a side-door and into the green room in the back of the theater.

"The cast'll be with you shortly, they really wanna meet you," the assistant yells, and dashes out.

Rizzo blinks and smiles good-naturedly, because there are some perks to being super famous in his favorite city in the world, and he's busy looking around at the great photographs of the Second City's cast with plenty of other Chicago celebrities when Bryant pulls him around and pushes him up against said wall of photos.

And Rizzo just goes with it, because what's the alternative, anyway? Complain? When Rizzo spends every waking moment not thinking about baseball replaying the way Bryant's stubble feels scraping against his chin, replaying the way his addictive mouth feels against Rizzo's lips and face? Bryant just makes this noise as he surges forward, a hand dipping into Rizzo's shirt collar, those absurdly addictive lips pressing a hot trail across Rizzo's chin, and Rizzo's panting after just a few seconds of it.

Bryant kisses him on the mouth, eagerly and possessive, and his tongue flashes in for a golden, glorious second and then Bryant is pushing Rizzo back again, hard enough that Rizzo lands in a chair, and Bryant backs off just in time for the door to open and the talented Second City actors to come pouring in.

Rizzo's flustered, but he beams widely at the actors anyway, and he's not even sure he knows what he's saying, but they're laughing a lot, and it seems to be _with_ him, not at him, so when Bryant manhandles him into the best position for a photograph, Rizzo just grins at the camera and hopes he doesn't look too disheveled (the photograph afterwards which he uploads to twitter shows he only looks a little glassy-eyed, and his collar is rakishly askew, but no one can tell he's just been soundly kissed by Kris Bryant, which is probably a good thing.)

It's 2am by the time they escape the theater, and the cool early morning breeze is just what Rizzo's overheated brain needs, except it's probably cooling his brain enough to the point where it can overthink.

Bryant kissed him. Again.

Bryant kissed him delightfully.

_Again._

Bryant seems to be… ninja dating him?

Maybe they should talk about it. Rizzo's checkerboard dating history is kind of a mess, and a couple of girlfriends mentioned, as they showed him the door, that he needs to work on his communication skills. Communication. That's absolutely what he needs right now. A coherent and cogent understanding on what they're doing and what Bryant wants and doesn't want from their… dalliances.

Rizzo takes a deep breath to start the communication process as they head briskly back to the parking garage. They need to move quickly. Getting recognized on the Chicago streets is a) very common, b) kind of a joy if not many people are around, c) is downright uncomfortable during peak traffic hours, and d) is downright _dangerous_ at stupid o' clock, especially when there are probably passionate Pittsburgh fans loitering around looking for a fight.

His opening salvo is _perfect._

"Um," Rizzo says, and he opens his mouth to say more.

"Not here," Bryant interrupts, shooting Rizzo an ambiguous look.

Rizzo sags, momentum lost. "Sure," Rizzo agrees, and follows Bryant to his sensible Audi. _Not here,_ however, seems to extend to the car, and to the road back to Rizzo's place, and when Rizzo clambers out onto the sidewalk near his home, Bryant skids off with a cheery, off-center wave.

Apparently Rizzo needs to learn that _not here_ means _not anywhere._

#

As soon as Bryant shuffles closer to the edge of the dugout in order to better check out how the Pirates' basemen are doing, Rizzo slides closer to Ross.

"Have you ever," Rizzo says, trying to keep his voice down as low as possible, "been stealth dated?"

Ross squints out at the field. "I presume you think you're making sense," Ross mutters eventually, eyes tracking the runners on the field.

"It's a kindness to presume that I think, thank you," Rizzo says.

Ross shoots him a side-glance and then tips his head at the decent rejoinder. "D'you mean have I ever _stealthily_ dated someone? Like the time I was doing the horizontal mambo with the local senator's daughter, and I didn't want him to fire my friend Bob who was working for him at the time?" Ross smiles dreamily into the distance. "Hell of a girl, Alison Bright. She let me take her up shit creek because she was that frightened of my swimmers knocking her up."

Rizzo stares at Ross. His mouth is open. There's probably a camera on him right now catching his dumb-ass expression. He doesn't fucking care. "You're a happily married man," Rizzo says, horrified.

"This was pre-wife, pre-kids," Ross sighs. "You do know parents have a life _pre_ -marriage, right?"

"Lies," Rizzo says. "Absolute lies. My parents were _born_ married."

"That sounds fucking illegal," Ross says. "Much like if someone's dating you and you don't know about it. It sounds like stalking to me."

"Stalkers generally want to be around you," Rizzo says, moodily kicking at the ground.

"I do have some helpful advice, though," Ross says.

Rizzo perks up. He loves getting advice from Ross, he's the best. "Yeah?"

"Shut the fuck up and let me concentrate on the game before I headbutt you in the crotch," Ross says, returning to glare at the game.

Rizzo sighs. Fair enough.

#

Normally Rizzo likes to sit at the back of the plane. It's a veteran's privilege, it means he can see his whole team, and when Bryant's hands tighten on the arm rests he can start howling that the plane's going down, _It's going down, Kris! What a way to go!_

This time, Rizzo fakes dropping something, letting more of the team pile onto the gangway first, before scooting in before Heyward and shoving himself in the spare aisle seat by Bryant. Rizzo smiles at Bryant as wide as he can before turning to the small screen in the chair in front of him and starting to mess with the TV settings.

Bryant makes a small huffing noise under his breath and stares resolutely out the window. He mutters something under his breath which might be the word _lunatic,_ but when Rizzo sneaks a look at his new seatmate, Bryant's hiding a brief smile under his hand.

"I swear if you fucking do that _we're all gonna die_ routine right here next to me, I'm fashioning a shiv out of my headphones," Bryant says, because apparently even a quick _hi_ is not in Bryant's playbook any more.

"Aw, dang, busted," Rizzo says. He folds down his table, drums his fingertips on it for a moment, and then side-eyes Bryant. "I suppose if I were to ask, you'd say _not here_ applies on planes, as well?"

"All the _not heres_ apply on all planes," Bryant says, through slightly gritted teeth. "Especially during take-off and landing."

Rizzo nods solemnly — Bryant seems to be okay during actual flights, it's just the change in pressure that seems to do something unpleasant to Bryant's brain.

Bryant's quiet through the pre-take-off procedures, and quiet as the plane starts to move, but as the plane starts to shake a little in preparation for take-off, Bryant closes his eyes tightly and makes a low noise that actually surprisingly isn't a turn-on, Rizzo's kind of surprised, because he thought everything about Bryant was 100% sexy. Even his baseball skills. Wait, who's he kidding, _especially_ his baseball skills. Rizzo's basically had a hard-on for Bryant's sluggers since forever; he laughed out loud when Maddon told him they'd brought Bryant up for his glove. _Honestly._

Anyway, the noise Bryant is making is low-key heartbreaking, and Rizzo just wants the noise to stop, and he swears, he _swears,_ he's just aiming for Bryant's hand.

He misses worse than his puck missed the Blackhawks goal last January.

Some might argue he misses _better,_ because the part of Bryant's anatomy that Rizzo's hand lands on, well. Some would probably term it a win, actually. Bryant turns a scandalized expression in Rizzo's direction, and Rizzo grins his most goofy grin, the one that got him out of trouble the most as a kid.

"I was aiming for your hand," Rizzo says.

"Sure you were," Bryant says, eyes narrowed, and Rizzo considers that maybe his contrition would sound more genuine if he actually moved his hand away. Bryant's eyes narrow, but the body part in question twitches interestedly, and Bryant rolls his eyes and grabs forward and — yanks his blanket on, covering his lap and Rizzo's hand before turning a defiant glare in Rizzo's direction.

"Life's short," Bryant says, and then he decidedly can't meet Rizzo's glare any more, his cheeks pinking, and his mouth pressing into a firm line, but his hips undulate upwards and while Rizzo never _meant_ to start this at all, that has absolutely no bearing on his follow-through.

Bryant's face is kind of unreal on the best of days, but when he tilts his head back so it pushes against his headrest, it's _more_ than unreal. Rizzo can scarcely believe what he's doing, and fuck, Lester and Strop are _right behind them,_ but Rizzo can't help himself. He unzips Bryant's pants with fumbling fingers, and Bryant's dick presses forwards insistently into the space between Rizzo's hand and the rustling blanket fabric. As Rizzo curls his fingers around Bryant's stiffening dick, he has to suppress a smirk — Bryant's friends called him _silk_ because of how smooth he could be, and he wonders how many of them knew it applied so well to the hot skin of Bryant's dick too.

The hand job is dry, probably unpleasantly so, and the small hiss Bryant makes is thankfully swallowed up by the growing roar of the engines taking them up into the sky. Rizzo's ears pop as the plane rises but he barely notices as he carefully manages to tug his hands upwards so some of Bryant's silk-smooth pre-cum can join the party. The small amount of slick pooling from the head of Bryant's dick makes the way easier for Rizzo's questing hand, and although Bryant's obviously resisting the urge to make noises his breathing settles into a shallow, rapid pattern than makes Rizzo's cheeks burn with pride.

It comes to Rizzo then that he's never actually properly seen what Bryant's packing. In the shower room no one looks, that's just how it is, and in the broom closet at the Clubhouse, Rizzo went by feel then too. His mouth waters involuntarily. Everything about Bryant is higher than the average and Bryant's dick feels like it is no exception. It feels thick when Rizzo curls his fingers around it, and Bryant's confidence even off the field is more than backed up by the length.

Rizzo's never had a dick inside him, not once, although he thought of it once during a teenage fumble when he hooked up with one of the rare guys that caught his interest back then, and the guy introduced him to the joys of intercrural sex, and fucked Rizzo's thighs for ten minutes, and on one of the thrusts, the head coasted across Rizzo's hole, just for the briefest of seconds, and everything turned into light and fireworks. If the guy had asked, Rizzo would probably have let him fuck him for real, the whole nine yards, only Rizzo's family came home, and the guy spooked and refused to even look at Rizzo ever again.

Rizzo's not really thought of it since, especially in the not-exactly-homo-friendly environment of a national athlete, and now— Now he can barely think of anything else. Bryant's dick stiffening in his hands, Rizzo's mouth touching the tip, sliding over the length of him, wetting it with his saliva before Bryant pulls back, eyes dark and intense, his addictive and quick fingers sliding between Rizzo's legs, down to his balls, and reaching behind, _reaching_ —

Bryant comes under Rizzo's accelerating strokes, folding over a little in the seat as he glares at Rizzo furiously, his mouth slack and his bottom lip red and glistening, slightly swollen. Apparently Bryant was chewing on his lip while Rizzo was off on a fantasy daydream of being fucked so good by him. Huh.

Rizzo wipes his hand on the blanket, earning himself a withering glance from Bryant, but what was he supposed to do? Pull out his come-glistening hand to where anyone could see it and know what he'd been doing?

"You're a lunatic," Bryant hisses, but he's still struggling to get his breathing back in order, and Rizzo can't wipe the smile from his face.

#

It's a good enough memory that Rizzo uses it to coast through the flight, through the boring routine of checking into the hotel, through morning practice and through a shitty game they lose for shitty reasons. It coasts him somewhat through a game they win for also possibly shitty reasons, but it's a win, Rizzo will take it. He hangs out with some of the team in the hotel afterwards, ordering too much room service and watching one of the _Sharknado_ films with the volume turned down so they can add their own dialogue, and Ross for some reason decides he's the only one who can voice the female characters, which is beyond hilarious to the point that Rizzo's seriously suggesting that Ross audition for the Second City at the end of the year, because if he's not going to utilize the amazing baseball streak he's had this year to do further damage on the league, then at least Ross can grace the world with his gift of humor.

It's with a light heart that Rizzo trawls back to his hotel room. He calls his mom and she makes enough noises about the Harley-Davison museum that Rizzo's sad his stay in Wisconsin is only going to be a short one. A hog might be a nice thing to have around Chicago. Well, at least until the internet realizes what he's driving and then no biker will be safe in Chicago, and Rizzo will be blamed, and yeah, maybe a motorcycle isn't the best plan. He tries to think _when I retire_ , but it feels so far away that it seems impossible.

Rizzo wants to play baseball forever, but he knows that's not viable. He feels lucky to get to play where he does, with the people he does, and while he can't have forever, he's happy to fight for as long as he can get with them. The advice that has apparently turned Bryant's head partially into actual soup was to live without having to wonder _what if,_ because life is too short, and Rizzo's been thinking and thinking about the fantasy he had on the plane while he was jerking Bryant off, and what is he fucking waiting for? A prostate is a prostate. He doesn't necessarily _need_ another person to help him find his own. He just needs some patience, some time alone, and probably something slick, like the hotel lotion in his ensuite bathroom.

He changes for bed first, feeling kind of silly as he brushes his teeth twice, his gut tensing in anticipation. He's been half hard since even entering his hotel room, like his dick knew what was coming, hopefully pun intended. Rizzo slides on a worn Padres t-shirt that's soft from years of sleeping in it, and vacillates over wearing his usual night-time boxers, before folding them and laying them determinedly on his night-stand. There's no reason for him _not_ to try this. Plenty of guys do it.

Rizzo feels even sillier when he plants himself on his bed, spreading his legs to thin air. The hotel has central air and he probably should have changed his room setting, because he's aware of how cool the air is. He's suddenly hyper aware of his entire body, how loud is breathing is, how much the head of his dick plumps up when he's thinking about Bryant smiling at him. Fuck. Rizzo's breathing is instantly quicker, and his asshole clenches on thin air, and shit, Rizzo needs to get a finger in him _stat_. He squirts lotion over his hand too eagerly, making a mess on the quilt and ignoring it in favor of reaching his hand down and pausing with one fingertip hovering at his entrance.

He should focus on his breathing more. If he rushes, this won't be pleasant. Rizzo forces himself to count down from ten. Bryant wouldn't just shove his finger in randomly. Bryant would take his time. He'd want Rizzo to be ready, loose and relaxed, eager for something bigger, not petrified. It's thinking firmly about how Bryant would finger him that helps Rizzo slip his first finger in, and it slides in easily up to his first knuckle which makes him _oh!_ in surprise.

Rizzo pauses experimentally, trying to adjust to the feeling of something in his ass. It doesn't feel bad, but it's nothing to write home about. Not that he would ever write home about anally fingering himself, of course. He forces himself to breathe, and he unconsciously spreads his legs a little wider as he tries to push his finger in deeper. There's more resistance now, his ass unwilling to let anything more intrude, and Rizzo tries to force himself to relax and not think about how he looks, half-naked and spread eagled and with one finger halfway up his own ass. Even Bryant would laugh at the sight, Rizzo thinks darkly, although Bryant might then at least have the decency to take his shirt off and join in. Well, if his recent descent into madness allowed him, that is.

Rizzo thinks about how Bryant would do this. He'd approach Rizzo like an exam, Rizzo thinks. Bryant's good at exams, apparently, and probably because he approaches everything in life like it's a baseball game — intent and passionate and _perfect_. Bryant would probably get one finger deep into Rizzo in his first try, sliding into home base like the perfect freaking player he is. Of course, mentally picturing that means Rizzo's picturing Bryant hitting a perfect three-point home run, and then he's picturing Bryant between his spread legs, a hot line of pink across his cheeks as he works his perfect dick into Rizzo, deeper, _deeper._

Rizzo's finger slips in almost despite himself, and Rizzo almost cries, because holy shit, _holy shit._ That's why everyone uses baseball metaphors in bed because that's a fucking home run right there, for _sure_. He moves his fingers experimentally, the same flash of pleasure slamming up his spine and wringing a punched sort of sound of his throat that he's never heard himself use before, and why the hell has he waited so long to do this, again? Rizzo's half-frantic with the rush of pleasure; he has no idea.

He also has no functioning brain cells, all the blood in his body focused insistently in one place, something which becomes apparent when Rizzo's phone rings and with his free hand — the one that's apparently been clawing into his sheets in helpless satisfaction — Rizzo reaches over and connects the call.

While he's lying there with a finger up his ass.

Rizzo gasps out, "Hello?", his voice thready and _blown,_ and that's the exact moment he realizes what a, well, _ass_ he is.

Thankfully, or really _not_ thankfully, it's Bryant, which is both par for the course, and also a fucking relief, because if his mom had been on the line, Rizzo thinks his dick would have probably curled up and inside his body never to be seen again. It's Bryant, and Rizzo's treacherous body seems to take that as consent and his hips snap forward as if of their own volition, trying to chase that same thunderclap of frisson again. Rizzo doesn't know how to feel when his fingertip doesn't graze that spot of joy in the slightest.

"I was thinking," Bryant says softly, and it's a measure of how far gone Rizzo is at this moment in time that he doesn't make the instant joke and just lets Bryant continue, "that maybe _here and now_ might be okay."

"Here and—?" Rizzo starts, blinking. He's maybe sweating a little, freaking _hell,_ this prostate thing is intense. Adding the intense Bryant feelings on top is coasting the whole combination into an impossible conflagration. "Oh," he says, feeling stupid. "Sure."

"Are you okay?" Rizzo can't see Bryant's face, thank goodness for that no-Facetime thing, but he can hear the confusion. "You sound a bit… different."

"I, uh," Rizzo says, and he should probably work his finger out, right? That's how it works? "I'm, uh—"

"Oh," Bryant says, like it's suddenly obvious what's going on. Bryant's voice goes deeper. "I could, uh— I could give you, um. A hand with that?"

Rizzo's been rocking a mild blush since he entered his hotel room, but his entire face flushes. "I'm in room three twelve," he says, and Bryant hangs up.

Rizzo's working up the energy to remove his finger, but he figures he'll have time when Bryant knocks, right? And Bryant's probably a short distance away, so Rizzo totally has time to leave his finger in there a moment longer, ready to adjust? _Bryant's coming to assist you anyway,_ Rizzo's brain teases, and yeah, that flush isn't going away any time soon. He shuffles backwards a bit on the bed, but the motion jars his prostate again, because he's seeing stars, and that's enough for him to miss his door opening.

It's not enough for him to miss Bryant saying, "I charmed your key from the—"

There may have been an intended end to that sentence, but Rizzo looks up at Bryant, sweaty and turned-on and dizzy, and Bryant goes from faux-casual to wide eyed surprise faster than one of Arrieta's fastballs.

"When you said I could give you a hand," Bryant says, "I never thought— I never _dreamed_ —" and before Rizzo can blurt out the thousand of apologies and embarrassed words bubbling up inside of him, Bryant's moving forwards and shedding his shirt simultaneously, and barely a moment later, Rizzo has Bryant kneeling on the bed, cupping Rizzo's face and kissing him like Rizzo's something to be devoured.

Bryant pulls back, already flushed himself, eyes dark and intent on Rizzo's face. It's all Rizzo can do to stare back.

"You have no idea how you look, do you?" Bryant says, cupping Rizzo's face with one hand, and one hand dipping downwards, pushing under Rizzo's shirt to rest possessively against his abs. "I feel like I dreamt you."

"You have fucking weird dreams," Rizzo manages, and he feels uncomfortable now, so he wriggles his hand out, clean and free, except the withdrawal is somehow also the worst thing and he makes a keening sort of noise.

His face is probably echoing the disappointment, because Bryant says, in a soft and reverent voice, "May I?"

 _May I._ Like he's just politely asking to put his fingers up Rizzo's butt, and it should be ludicrous, and Rizzo should be laughing him out of his hotel room, except he's already nodding, and Bryant's already looking at him like he's a free pass to the World Series, and Bryant's reaching for the lotion, and Rizzo does laugh then, a deep and throaty chuckle that should have Bryant running for the hills, but Bryant just smiles at him and coats his fingers and probes between Rizzo's legs and _oh._ Apparently there was something missing from Rizzo's life and it was a shirtless Kris Bryant, still wearing pants, nestled between Rizzo's thighs and intently fingering Rizzo's asshole.

Rizzo's head smacks back on the pillow and he mouths wordlessly, hyperaware that he has nosy baseball neighbors, and he turns his head at one point to bite mindlessly at the pillow.

"This was on my list for sure," Bryant says, sounding oddly pleased.

Rizzo would make sentences if he could, but Bryant has three, _three_ very nice fingers up his asshole, filling him in a way he never knew he wanted, never knew he _needed,_ and he's thrusting his hand at a slow curved rhythm that has him hitting Rizzo's prostate on every fourth or fifth stroke and Rizzo is going out of his mind for sure. He needs to make words. He feels like what Bryant is saying is important.

"List?" he manages, in among _yes_ and _deeper_ and maybe, embarrassingly, _Kris. Kris._

"Mmhmm," Bryant says, focusing in on the sight of his hand and where his fingers are disappearing into Rizzo's heat. His other hand moves to Rizzo's poor abandoned dick, and Rizzo makes a noise when Bryant curls his fingers around the heated length, but Bryant does nothing more than cup it gently as he continues slowly torturing Rizzo. By which he means, fingerfucking. "My list of regrets. Things I wanted to do but didn't think I could."

"If it's me," Rizzo pants, "you can do anything. Anything."

"Anything, maybe," Bryant says, speeding up his hand and wrenching another noise from Rizzo's throat that he can't help. Please god let Szczur be watching gameshows with the volume too high like usual, Rizzo thinks desperately. "But not everything."

"What does that even _mean,_ " Rizzo says, except he comes messily all over Bryant's hand in punctuation, which he suddenly finds very sad, because it probably means Bryant is about to stop.

"Nothing," Bryant says enigmatically, "and everything." He leans up and kisses Rizzo then, deep and serious, tongue gentling against Rizzo's as Rizzo's heartbeat slows back to normal, as Bryant slowly pulls his hand free like it's an apology. Rizzo flails an arm as if to reach out and reciprocate in some manner, but Bryant pulls back from the kiss and he's smiling easily as he gestures downwards, and Rizzo gapes as he notices the damp patch on Bryant's pants. Bryant came, just from that? Bryant's easy smile lingers as he retrieves his shirt and shucks it back on, and he's already backing up when Rizzo realizes he's leaving.

Rizzo's been more exposed to Bryant that he's ever been exposed to anyone, and yet, this is the first moment that Rizzo feels naked.

"You could stay," Rizzo says. His heart is pounding and he feels _terrified._ It's rare after an encounter with Bryant that he can pinpoint an exact emotion, but this is definitely fear. He's scared, _so_ scared. Mostly because he wants Bryant to say yes so badly.

Bryant's smile turns sad and Rizzo can't look away as Bryant shakes his head. "I really can't," Bryant says, and leaves the room.

Rizzo stares for a moment at the empty space Bryant's left behind, unable to shake the feeling that he's just been hit by a truck.

#

Okay, so, Rizzo totally prides himself on being able to play baseball and not have to separate it like it's some fucking idyllic sanctuary of joy to be respected and isolated. He doesn't have superstitions. He can put his socks on in any which order he damn well pleases. Sure he automatically puts his equipment in the locker nearest to Bryant's, but that's just habit, not superstition.

He just kind of wishes he _could_ compartmentalize, because his life and baseball all have Bryant wrapped through them like a pair of headphones he's jammed into his pocket without winding up right first. He can't unknot Bryant from his life or from baseball, even if he wants to.

Rizzo chews vindictively on his straw. Right now, he kind of wants to.

Goddamn San Francisco's night scene and damn Rizzo's automatic _hell yes_ to invitations to a night out on the town from any of his teammates and damn the ridiculous number of hot girls all swarming around Bryant. Damn Bryant's debonair charm and sweeping wide grin and absurdly long lashes.

"Ouch," Ross says.

Rizzo drags his eyes away from the flock of girls huddling around Bryant. Ross is drinking from two beer bottles at once because he's kind of a sandwich short of a picnic in general, but what would Rizzo know, he's slow sipping from sparkling water with a wedge of lime jammed in to make it look like he's drinking alcohol.

"What did that straw do to you?

"Existed?" Rizzo says.

"I've never actually wanted to die until right this minute, but if that's the punishment for living, that sure looks like a terrible way to go," Ross says, eyeballing the straw again, and then following Rizzo's gaze to where it skulks automatically back to Bryant. "Striking out yourself, huh? Guess you're not such a young whippersnapper any more, eh?" Ross elbows him playfully and Rizzo rolls his eyes.

"I could pick up if I wanted to," Rizzo sniffs. "I've got more game than a van full of monopoly boards." He sucks on his water noisily for a moment, sighing at how ineffective straws are when you chew them to death.

"Sure you do, kiddo," Ross says, clapping Rizzo on the back, his beer bottles clanking together. "And speaking of funny things, I'm going to go speak to someone having more fun than you." Ross beams and walks off, leaving Rizzo standing there, squinting down at his lime wedge like it's to blame for making him kind of boring.

He should probably try and pick up or something. He's been alone for way too long if Bryant's weird spate of kiss-and-runs are affecting him to the point where he can't even banter with Grandpa Rossy. He sighs, and eyes the crowd with as much discernment as he can muster, and he's _meaning_ to try and see if the cute bartender will catch his eyes, really, he is, except he kind of locks gazes with Bryant across the room instead.

It's just for a moment, but Bryant's face goes from easy going to murderous within a second, and seriously, fuck this night with a rusty spoon. Rizzo puts his drink down on the nearest surface, which might be the edge of a plant pot, he really fucking doesn't care. Stupid Bryant and his stupid charming face and the way his stupid Disney Prince voice sounds like in the dugout when he's murmuring encouragement into Rizzo's ears during their games. Bryant can pick up all the girls in San Francisco for all he fucking cares.

They picked the bar for a reason, half a street from the hotel, not that it matters after a loss like that afternoon's, and Rizzo storms out the bar and towards their hotel, only for someone to grab his upper arm and yank him backwards.

Rizzo tenses up, ready for a fight, because he's in an unfamiliar city where maybe they didn't do too well that day, but yesterday they trounced the Giants 8-1 because Arrieta is like the girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead — when he's good, he's _very very good._ He balls up his fist and is about two inches away from smashing Bryant in the middle of his unfairly attractive face.

"Woah," Bryant says, looking alarmed, and then settling for looking pissed off, which is kind of baffling, because Bryant isn't exactly the one being enthusiastically molested and then having the partner run away like they're being scalded.

"Woah yourself," Rizzo says, resigning himself to missing out on this year's nomination for the most eloquent person on the planet. Bryant glares at him and Rizzo sighs. "What. Dude, _what._ I'm just headed back to the hotel, man."

"In there," Bryant says, his voice low and gritty, jerking his head stiffly in the direction of the bar. "I need you to fucking leave me alone, okay?"

Rizzo stares, completely lost. "I… did?" He squints and wonders if his water might have accidentally been vodka. No, he remembers the whole night, all painfully boring forty-nine minutes of it. "I distinctly remember standing out of everyone's way?"

Bryant folds his arms. "You know what you did," he hisses.

"Apparently not!"

Bryant unfolds his arms and jabs a finger in Rizzo's chest, not a hint of kindness in the push. Rizzo, used to letting Bryant into his personal space automatically, is blindsided by the rage and nearly stumbles back. "Fucking _staring_ at me with that fucking expression, fucking mouth wrapped around that _fucking straw,_ and I'm there trying to fucking move on, trying to _stop fucking thinking about you_ —"

And Rizzo's kind of only just about wrapping his mind around the fact that Bryant, perfect golden boy polite Bryant with his rare curses and sunshine demeanor, is spitting out curses like the world will end if he doesn't, he has no brain space to spare to cope with the fact that Bryant's suddenly mauling him right there in the middle of the fucking street where anyone can see. He can only spare enough thought to react to the kiss, because it's automatic, his body knows what it's like to be pressed up against Bryant's, and his body's spent too long craving it _not_ to give in one hundred percent to the sensation even though it's probably a terrible idea.

Wait. Wait, it _is_ a terrible idea. They're closeted athletes — at least, Rizzo definitely is, he doesn't know what Bryant is — and kissing in the middle of an enemy city is not a great idea at all.

Rizzo hauls back and bodily shoves Bryant away.

"What the fuck, man?" Rizzo struggles to breathe as he stares at Bryant, incredulous. "You're giving me fucking _whiplash._ One moment you think it's okay to like, hold me down and suck my dick, and then you spend days _ignoring_ me. You fucking _do_ things to me and then run out like I've set your ass on fire. You can't fucking do this, man. I get it, believe me, I get it, you have urges and you— you probably feel guilty or something for unholy urges or _whatever,_ but I am your _friend._ You either treat me with some fucking respect or you back off and, just—"

"Don't you think I'm _trying_ to back off?" Bryant pushes closer again, but not with a soft intent; his eyes are blazing and every muscle in his body is tensed like he's facing down a three-run deficit, bases are loaded and he's the last batter up. "I'm trying, I swear, but every time I turn around you're-- you're _there._ Watching me, or phoning me, or _touching_ me. All the time, just— you're constantly fucking touching me, Rizz. And staring at me like I'm the best thing on the planet. And yet we get together and you look _terrified_ , like you've got no idea what you're doing, so I leave, and then you're _right back at it again._ It's been driving me _crazy._ "

Rizzo squints. What? That doesn't even sound right at all. "What?" he says. "I don't touch you constantly. Not at all!"

Bryant laughs sharply, unamused, and he lifts up a hand as if to prod Rizzo in the chest again, but this time he withholds the urge. " _Constantly,_ " he says.

"But I don't—" Rizzo starts, and then falters. " _You're_ the one who's been touching _me._ " He pauses and considers. "And even if somehow you were right, you flee after like I've lit your ass on fire, when I fucking _asked_ you to stay, repeatedly—" He says _repeatedly_ with a sour tone, still smarting from the rejection of the last time he asked Bryant to stay.

"Forgive me for not wanting to face up to you realizing your mistakes—"

"I'd never consider you a mistake," Rizzo says, bewildered. "And if I was so _confused,_ why did you keep coming back?"

Bryant runs a hand over his hair and exhales, frustrated. "You know what, I'm just— I'm gonna go back inside, man. Just— look at the games, okay? Look at the games and then tell me you're not the king of fucking mixed signals."

Rizzo squints at Bryant. "Maybe I will," he says, scowling.

Bryant just looks sad, before turning on his heel and storming back into the bar.

Rizzo stands in the street a moment longer, achingly confused.

#

At first, Rizzo lies stubbornly in bed. He doesn't even get changed. He lies on the bed, still wearing his shoes, his arms pressed to his sides as he stares up at the ceiling.

Bryant's out of his mind, that's for sure, Rizzo thinks firmly. Mixed signals his ass. He doesn't touch Bryant any more than he touches anyone else, surely? And the way Rizzo looks at Bryant — Rizzo's face is just his face, he can't help how he looks.

Rizzo stares and stares and scowls.

He reaches for his phone.

 _What happens if your teammates think you look at them funny_ , he types out.

 _You end up with stupid chirps about your crazy eyes until the end of time_ , Toews replies. Barely seconds after Rizzo's message. What a loser.

Rizzo sighs. He'll just sleep, wake up, eat a hearty breakfast, try and break the gym's elliptical, and then kick some giant (heh, Giants) behinds. That's a great plan. Bryant's used to avoiding him, Rizzo can avoid Bryant just _fine._ Square plan. Great idea.

He tosses and turns and reaches for his tablet with a strangled noise of frustration.

He logs into the MLB app, grateful for his complimentary account, and loads up a game. He's just pacifying Bryant, that's all. The game takes a while to queue up, stupid shitty hotel internet, so he switches to the YouTube app for the highlights. Rizzo used to read the Cliff Notes for novels at high school, highlight reels are totally the equivalent, just as valid to watching the whole thing.

On the small screen of his tablet, slightly-pixelated-Rizzo wraps his arms around slightly-pixelated-Bryant in the dugout.

Rizzo squints.

Okay, so Bryant made a play that was worth celebrating. Sure. That's normal behavior. He hugs everyone for that.

He queues up another highlight reel.

Slightly-pixelated-Rizzo sidles in close to slightly-pixelated-Bryant, Rizzo whispering something low and steady into Bryant's ears that makes Bryant laugh.

Rizzo goes down into the YouTube rabbit warren, falling down a long hole of Cubs' videos, and over and over again he can see it. It's not _super_ obvious, but once you see that it's there, you can't unsee it. Rizzo, with a casual arm draped around him, or a happy leg pat after a great homer, or an excited running hug after an amazing game, or their bodies curved into each other as they walk and talk, and shit, _shit._

Rizzo's fucking all over him. All the fucking time.

He knows he's a tactile person. His family is Italian-flavored American, they spend all the time basically draped over each other, it's wrapped into their culture and DNA like Rizzo's love of baseball is drenched through everything he is and does. Bryant always hugs him back, but a lot of the time it's after a pause. If Bryant comes from a more traditional American family, with the same stilted western concept that touches are used sparingly…

Shit. _Shit._

Rizzo needs to pull back and _stat._ If Bryant's translating his tactile nature as constant invitation, no wonder he's given in occasionally, only for Rizzo to then react like _where the fuck did that even come from_ in return? Rizzo's felt like Bryant's given him whiplash, but he's probably dealt the same amount in return.

#

Bryant opens his hotel room door and nearly slams it shut in Rizzo's face.

"Wait, I need to talk," Rizzo says. A little too loudly, because Lester and Strop are down the hall, and they both peer around interestedly, and Bryant lets out an annoyed squawk and yanks Rizzo into the room before he can make a scene.

Bryant's already moving away from Rizzo to glare out angrily through his hotel window and Rizzo stands awkwardly at the entrance to Bryant's room. All the hotel rooms look the same; the only reason Rizzo's aware that they're in St. Louis now is that he's pretty sure Busch Stadium has a particular smell to it, one that lingers in his hair for a whole fucking week after he's played there.

They're down one game in this series, and Rizzo's itchy with it. He wants to win. He wants to sort this thing out with Bryant more, though. Maybe both can happen at once.

"Well," Rizzo says. "I'm kind of more embarrassed than the time I cried when coach made me play short stop for a spell when I first joined the team at MSD."

Bryant doesn't fully turn to face him or say anything, but he does look back for a moment to flicker a curious look at him.

"I thought, uh, I thought you only got put there if you were only gonna be like, five foot and change," Rizzo says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "I figured they thought I wasn't going to grow any more, and I cried, because I wanted to be six foot tall."

"Obviously you were wrong," Bryant says lightly.

"Yeah, I should be used to that by now, huh?" Rizzo says. "I wanted to say I was sorry. I didn't realize I was in your personal space so much. I wish I'd known how much it was bothering you."

"It didn't _bother_ me," Bryant says. "I just made the mistake of assuming we were on the same page, when we weren't even in the same book."

"What if we were, though?" Rizzo says. "Are. Shit. I don't know how to say that. Maybe shoulda gone to college after all."

Bryant shrugs. "Maybe."

The air in the hotel room is stale, unmoving. Too artificial. Rizzo sighs. "I'm touchy with everyone," Rizzo says. "I just didn't realize I was doing it to you more and I'm sorry you thought I was giving you a wrong impression, or that you'd interpreted it wrong, or—" He frowns. "You know, I kinda thought I'd had this whole thing figured out, but I'm still fucking confused."

"I shouldn't have gotten so angry with you," Bryant says. His shoulders sag a little, the line of his back all wrong. "I'm not used to attention like that, I was the one that assumed there was more to it than there was. I shouldn't have blamed you at all."

"I didn't push you away."

"Be that as it may, I didn't even try and ask you outright. I guess I was too scared to hear a no. I thought if I was wrong about what all the attention meant, you'd have punched me. So when you kissed me back I thought, hey, you guessed right, Bryant, he _is_ into you, it's okay to kiss him." Bryant turns then, a self-loathing expression on his face, and he shrugs at Rizzo helplessly.

"You're not really listening to me," Rizzo says. "Listen. I didn't push you away. You were right about what my attention meant." He flushes, awkward and just as embarrassed as his short-stop growing fears. "I just didn't _know_ I was doing it, that I was hugging you ten times as much as anyone else, and I wasn't aware _why_ I was doing it. But… I think it's more than clear how much I'm attracted to you by now."

"I thought you knew," Bryant says, sounding miserable. "I thought you were flirting with me to test the waters, and I— I held back for so long, but then you were so close, _too_ close, how was I supposed to resist any longer?" He can't meet Rizzo's eyes; his gaze moves determinedly to the ceiling. "I have a bucket list, okay? I wrote it last year, down on the farm, when I watched all those videos online about you and what you'd gone through, and all the kids you were helping, and I realized, that could be me. That could be any of us. Any time, bam, gone. And I didn't want to die regretting things. So I made up a list of things I wanted to do. And after I'd knocked off the first item - travelling on the L on my own late at night — I kind of felt invincible, you know?"

"Yeah. You kind of get that buzz when you kick cancer's ass," Rizzo says, nodding. "I know the feeling."

"So that's kind of why I kissed you that first time," Bryant says, still not looking at Rizzo. "I was high on adrenaline and kissing a guy was at the top of my list."

"Okay," Rizzo says, unevenly. "I guess that explains the kiss."

"Giving someone a blow job at work was on the list too," Bryant says. "I couldn't stop thinking about the kiss, about the _noise_ you made, and you— You really do hug me a lot, more than anyone else. And I kind of thought, with you not punching me after the kiss, that maybe you'd be okay with more."

"Mmhmm," Rizzo says, noncommittally. He's kind of starting to see where his exes had a point with the using words thing, but it's going to take a lot of practice and his brain is kind of occupied right now. "How about the date?"

Bryant squints. "What date?"

"Second City."

"That wasn't a date," Bryant says. He blinks slowly. "You thought it was a date?"

"Well," Rizzo says, "you bought me tickets to a show and escorted me and opened my door, man."

"That was just— the car door sticks on that side. And I wanted to see them with someone I liked," Bryant says. "You thought it was a _date_?"

"In my defence, you'd been all ninja kissing me and shit," Rizzo says. "I thought maybe you'd decided I was worth wooing properly. And then you hot-footed it out there like I was contagious." If he sounds sulky, it's because he is.

Bryant blinks, then makes a soft huffing noise. "And I thought you were the only one giving out mixed signals. Sorry."

"Apology accepted," Rizzo allows. "The plane thing was an accident. Kind of. I was aiming for a reassuring pat on the leg."

"You missed big time, buddy," Bryant says, his cheeks pinking, obviously remembering it. "I, uh. I appreciated the distraction? Even if I was kind of pissed off that you were blowing hot and cold at me."

" _I_ was blowing hot and cold?" Rizzo says, heated, and Bryant shoots him a look and Rizzo sighs. "Fine," he allows, grudgingly. He eyes Bryant's blush speculatively."And the fingering?"

Bryant color deepens to a bright shade of red. "To be fair, I thought you were jerking off and I could lend you a hand, which was _also_ on my list. But when I saw you lying there looking like a hundred wet dreams all at once? I— I should have backed off. I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't be, I've jerked off to that memory like a thousand times," Rizzo says.

Bryant's eyes darken and narrow all at the same time, which would be hilarious if Rizzo didn't feel so strung out. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," Rizzo says. He waggles his eyebrows, grins, and then sobers. "Can I ask you a question?"

"I can't guarantee a coherent answer after what you just said," Bryant says.

Rizzo beams, kind of proud of that as a response. "So you thought I was flirting and coming onto you the whole time," Rizzo says. "Can I clarify that you were into it? That if I'd been fully aware and cogent of the flirting and didn't look at you completely baffled and scared and confused after our interactions, and I'd asked you on a date after — you would have said yes, right?"

Bryant looks kind of annoyed, but he nods tersely, and Rizzo has to really resist the urge to punch the air.

"I'm aware now," Rizzo says. "When we get back to Chicago, would you go to dinner with me?"

Bryant's the one who looks startled this time, but he flushes, and then he nods, and Rizzo gives in to the fistpump urge. Bryant rolls his eyes at the sight.

"Doofus," Bryant says, but it's fond, and he's smiling, so Rizzo can't complain.

"I'm not the doofus who has an actual written bucket list," Rizzo says.

Bryant makes a grumpy sort of sound which Rizzo thinks is adorable and fuck, how did he miss for so long that he was completely gone on the guy? It boggles Rizzo's mind for _sure_.

"Can I see it?" Rizzo asks.

Bryant looks unsure for a moment, but then he nods, and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper from his wallet, because of course Kris Bryant is the kind of guy to handwrite a bucket list and then carry it around with him.

Rizzo saunters forwards and takes the list, casually sitting on the edge of Bryant's bed, and yeah, that's a lie, it's not casual at all, it's kind of deliberate. It's _fake_ casual. Faux casual. Designed as a move to see if Bryant will sit next to him on a bed, because sitting on a bed might lead to more _lying_ on beds, and Rizzo's absolutely a fan of that. Especially when Bryant is also on said bed.

Wow, he needs to stop mentally rambling about Bryant and beds before he gets a painful boner, and he carefully unfolds the list, smiling at the number of items already crossed out in Bryant's careful penmanship.

Some of the list entries that are crossed out are highly familiar.

_Kiss a guy._

_Ride the L train at night._

_See the Second City with someone I like._

_Give someone a blowjob at work. :D_

_Con a concierge into giving me a hotel key that isn't my own._

Others seem typical bucket list fodder.

_Prank one of my teammates._

_Pay off my parents' mortgage._

_Go to both sides of the Niagara Falls._

_Ride a camel._

The list continues in Bryant's neat writing, and Rizzo smiles faintly at lots of things he's been thinking of doing too.

_Learn how to cook an eight-course tasting meal._

_Climb the Eiffel Tower._

_Eat nothing but breakfast food for a week._

_WIN THE WORLD SERIES WITH THE CUBS._

There's basically half a page of dirty items, some that make even Rizzo blush.

And then, at the bottom of the list, are some items that make Rizzo's heart pound.

_Fall in love with someone who loves me back._

_Get married and invite my parents._

_Go on honeymoon to Europe._

_Have kids, or foster/adopt. About a hundred of them. :)_

Rizzo swallows at the list, his vision going a little hazy, something coming to mind that he wants to say, that he wants to say so _badly,_ but he's terrified. No wonder Bryant gets confused around him, because Bryant makes him feel everything. Every emotion. The whole spectrum. _Everything._

Not using words correctly, though, has gotten them both absolutely turned around every which way.

"I, uh," Rizzo says, handing Bryant back the list, and he steels himself, because if he can stand in front of thousands of people every night, willing to have his ass kicked on camera, he can say a few words that mean, oh, just about everything. "I'm pretty sure I can help you on every item on that list," he says, and Bryant's calm expression turns down at the edges, veering into frown territory. "Um. If you're interested?"

"Yeah," Bryant says, "I—" Then he stops and blinks rapidly. " _Every_ item?" he questions, and he sounds breathless, and his voice hitches, like maybe it means something. Like maybe it means as much to him as it does to Rizzo.

"Maybe not item forty-four with the machine and the, uh, DP and the wow, very detailed playlist you want to go along with it," Rizzo says, and Bryant makes a face that's half-grimace, half-grin, and wow, it's always the good Christian boys that are the kinkiest little shits, damn. Rizzo tilts his chin and meets Bryant's gaze as coolly as he can. "But everything else, yes."

"Um," Bryant says, borrowing from Rizzo's favorite list of super coherent things to say. "I, uh." He kicks at the ground a little, and a shy, beautiful smile blooms on his face as he meets Rizzo's gaze. "I'd be open to that."

Rizzo feels like someone's taken a large weight away from, and he matches Bryant's grin. "Good," Rizzo says, and when Bryant moves in to press his smile firmly against Rizzo's, that word feels like it describes everything about the situation.

#

"This is the right one, yeah?" Bryant asks, after a long moment of fiddling with the screw.

"Yeah," Rizzo says. "C'mon, move your ass quicker."

Bryant shoots him a dirty look. "That's not what you were saying last night."

"What can I say, I like it slow," Rizzo says. "Hurry up, he's coming."

" _Nearly_ what you were saying last night," Bryant says, winking at him and flourishing his screwdriver one last time before pulling it out and pocketing it, dashing over to join Rizzo on the treadmill and starting to jog like he's been there the whole time.

Addison and Heyward are deep in conversation, sparing Bryant and Rizzo a brief hi before laying their towels down and settling onto the bikes, and Rizzo has to lower his head like he's focusing on the treadmill settings to hide his smile. There's a shuffling sound of them cycling for a moment, and then a satisfyingly high-pitched scream, and then a loud crashing noise as Addi falls off stationery bike four.

Rizzo glances to his side to see Bryant lift his list out of his pocket and casually scratch a line through _prank one of my teammates_ before looking up and grinning at Rizzo, his partner in so many things now. Baseball. Crime. _Life._

Rizzo grins back. Life's short, that's for sure, and it can bring you so many unexpected things that hurt, but sometimes, life also brings you the unexpected things that make life worth living. Even if sometimes you have to learn how to use your words to figure that out.

"Come on, run faster," Rizzo says. "If we wipe out the Phillies, I might still be wary of item forty-four, but item forty-five? _So_ on the menu."

Bryant looks down at his own list and nearly stumbles off his treadmill.

Rizzo beams back at him innocently.

Yeah, life's good.

#


End file.
